


Mountain Journeys and Earthen Feet

by MissMagpie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 20:38:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13372641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMagpie/pseuds/MissMagpie
Summary: An Appalachian legend forged from the hills, bridging the destiny of these mountains with that of a single family. Two siblings tell the tale.





	1. Part 1

Ring dingle ding. The door of the tattoo parlor swung open, letting out a small chorus of jingles from the doorbell and announcing the entry of Jayme and Margot Grayfeet into the shop. Their skin was the color of acorns, evident of the Native heritage that followed them in from the cold. The two siblings wiped rain droplets away from their tan faces, casting off the gloom and melancholy of the day as they as they hung their black raincoats by the door. Earth to earth, dust to dust, ash to ash, bird to sky… The words echoed across their minds, connecting them together with unspoken sorrow. Yet, a constricting grief held onto Margot as she left her jacket on the rung, an invisible hand gently stroking the crest of her cheek. 

“Earth to earth.” She closed her eyes, her stomach lurching. Yet, her brother’s gentle hand on her shoulder quelled the sadness quickly.   
“Bird to sky.” He finished the mantra.

“Haven’t seen y’all in here before. Y’all new in town?” The clerk’s voice broke the quiet nuance of the parlor. Jayme turned and smiled, as if withholding a secret. 

“Just visiting. From Memphis originally.” His bluesy drawl contrasted with the clerk’s mountain twang.

“Well, that’s mighty long way from the mountains, but I won’t hold it against ya. Welcome. What can I do for you?” The clerk said, leading the siblings to a back room and seating them on neighboring stools. Sharing a glance, Margot slipped an ebony heel off of her foot, while her brother did the same with his dress shoes. Etched around their ankles were 4 black circlets, symbols of the past no larger than a pencil line. 

“Looking to add another one, if you wouldn’t mind.” Margot said, locking eyes with the shopkeep. He paused, a flicker of curiosity flashing across his eyes, before nodding.   
Minutes later the shopkeep’s needle was blackened with ink and sizzling on Jayme’s ankle. The older brother’s eyes wandered the room, scanning the walls and tables for something to occupy his mind away from the pain and grief. He settled on a small shrine in the corner. A newspaper clipping was taped on the wall with a gray and white feather sitting below its headline: “Peregrine Grayfeet: 1937-2017”.

“Did you know her?” A sudden grief choked Jayme’s words, turning them soft yet hoarse.

“Aye, I reckon I did.” The clerk responded. “She was a nice lady, Ms. Grayfeet was. She was the church teacher for my little girl down over on First Methodist. Always took walks with the kids, showing ‘em all the birds and bees of the land.”

“Yea, that sounds like something she’d do.” 

“Reckon my girl’ll be a right regular biologist cause of her.” They chuckled, sharing a bittersweet sorrow that always accompanies stories of the dead. “I’m sorry for your loss… I take it this ring is for her? Not many people head to the tattoo parlor after a funeral.” 

Jayme smiled to himself, that same smile from before, like he was keeping a secret to himself. A story he wanted to tell. And so the legend began.


	2. Part 2

At the turn of the 17th century, our people were hunters and nomads who travelled the mountain lands others would not in hopes of deer and elk. Legend says that our founder, Elsu Grayfeet, was born on the highest peak in southern Appalachia, owing his life to the mother who followed the deer trails up and over the ridge as the first morning light shone on his newborn skin. His first cry rang out, echoing across those majestic, misty mountains. Those magistrates, who rose from the earth and gave it life, sang back at the babe and, through the carols of their voices, instilled in him the heart of the mountains. It was a promise that would bind him to those lands for the rest of his days, a promise that, as long as he kept and cherished those lands, they, as equals, would look after him. 

It was this heart that ached, an ache that touched the very essence of his nomadic soul, when the soldiers peaked over those very hills, bringing guns, whisky, and cold hearts. And he foresaw the end of his people.

Upon the arrival of federal soldiers to his valley, Elsu Grayfeet sought guidance in the earth around him. The wind blew through the trees and the chestnuts and the birch whispered the way to salvation. And so, Elsu began the journey to that mountain peak where he had been born, stripping himself of his moccasins and beads, and humbled himself before the gods. The rock cracked the soles of his feet, turning them bloody and raw. He bore the sharp sting of nettle willingly and, as Elsu made his pilgrimage to that highest peak, his skin became more earth than flesh. Its sun-kissed hue to a smoky gray, the color of a misty morning.

At last, the trees cleared and Elsu saw a vision that would strike awe in the hardest of souls. Purple and blues scattered the horizon, soft, hazy, and majestic as those high mountains harmonized with the valley of his people. A Golden Eagle soared above him, feathers bristling in the sky. 

“Oh, Great Messenger, the First Chief, the War Bird!” Elsu beseeched. “Strangers have come to this land, strangers with no sense of mercy or guidance. They do not know these lands, nor care for them. They have come to send us away from our home as I have foreseen the death of our ways and our people. We are extinct from this earth. Our land does not remember us.” 

The eagle cried and its screech echoed across the valley. She soared amongst the clouds, tendrils of white scattering across her wings. The golden hue of her feathers seemed to blur, streaking back into the sky like dye in water. The Oaks and Pines bowed to the Great Eagle, their nettles bristling in the wind. The Squirrel offered fruits and seeds, while the Pigeon cooed his plesantries. The trickster Fox hid in his burrow, deep in shadow. As the Eagle flew over the valley, the entire realm of nature payed attention. 

“Do you think these hills are so easily changeable? The test of time obliterates all and yet here they stand! You hold my heart and the heart of these lands. Carry the earth on your feet, dear one, and they will never forget you, for you carry the heart of the mountain.” The eagle’s eyes shown bright. They carried a fire in them, dancing wild and passionate, yet it instilled a calming sense of warmth in Elsu as the spirit spoke. ”You have my blessing, but my guidance comes at a price. Our people will survive these trials the white man places before them, I have decreed it. But, death will smother this land and the river waters will run red with sorrow. And so, as you move on from these mountains, so too will death. For each generation of our people to thrive and flourish, a single spirit must return here to live with me among these mountains. “

Elsu did not question the words of the spirit which stood before him. He took them with honor and wisdom and returned to his people with renewed hope and gray feet. And with that hope, he relayed the Great Messenger’s words to his son and family, “Then we will honor those among us who perish, for to remember them is to remember this land. And so too we will carry them with us, just as we carry the earth. And we will endure and thrive. Earth to earth, dust to dust, ash to ash, and bird to sky.”

And so, as the soldiers came and multiplied in search of gold and new opportunity, Elsu’s people left the deer, the rhododendron, and those purple mornings behind. The old, young, and able alike made the trek off of those steep cliffsides and so too did the earth instill itself upon their skin. But, as Elsu took those final steps off the mountain that birthed him, his spirit haltered and his heart stopped. He stumbled and fell. Leaves drifted from the chestnut trees, adorning his body in fallen oranges and reds. From the path, the wind picked up dust, swirling in tandem. An eagle took flight from a wayward pine.

Seeing this, Farris Grayfeet (the original surname long forgotten) took the beads from his father’s neck. He looked toward the sky, tears flowing down his cheeks, and smiled at the sight. Elsu’s words echoed on his lips, as they would do for generations. And they walked on.


	3. Part 3

A red dusty pick-up truck hustled down a mountain road. The gravel path twisted precariously, and the vehicle bounced over the uneven terrain, spraying dust and brushing against rhododendron until Margot and Jayme Grayfeet came upon a metal cow gate blocking their path. Barbed wire fencing wrapped around and extended back into the mountain forest. The siblings stepped out into those rustic, smoky Appalachian with bare feet, clothes of mourning gone and replaced with more casual fare. Jayme and Margot each ducked under the fencing and looked up ahead at the path which steadily ascended the steep hillside. They locked hands and began the climb. 

The rocks’ jagged edged dug into their feet. Thorns and needles pricked their soles. Yet, their feet, trimmed with those five black lines, did not bleed. This was not their first journey nor would it be their last as thick callous protected them from harm. And, as they climbed to the mountain peak that had long forgotten the physical presence of their people, they carried the souls of their ancestors with them. Spirits walked with them: Farris and Nashoba Grayfeet, who led their people across the lands of Tennessee in the original Trail of Tears, yet perished from the cold after giving their last woven blanket to their child; Chatan Grayfeet, who escaped the forced march west, only to be shot and killed in service to Union forces in the Civil War; Dorothy Grayfeet, who began their family’s homestead in Tennessee, killed when a tornado demolished their house; Peregrine Grayfeet, their grandmother, who raised Margot when their mother, Emile, passed from cancer when she was twelve; Peter, their youngest brother, who was hit by a train last year.   
It was the dead they remembered as Margot and Jayme, at last, crested above the trees and found themselves at the mountain peak. Their toes touched the edge of the cliffside, overlooking the valley of their people. Wind tousled their hair and, if they took that one precarious step over the edge, they felt like they could fly. The thought crossed their minds. 

Yet, as Margot and Jayme looked down at those mountain peaks purple with haze, a large, magnificent Golden Eagle suddenly swooped up from the crevice gushing the siblings with a burst of wind and wildness. The tips of his feathers brushed their cheeks. And, just as there was one, there were a dozen. Eagles, Peregrine Falcons, Kestrels, hawks all crowded the sky, funneling in a twisting tower of fury and feathers. The wind was theirs and they reveled in the element of spirits. Jayme slipped his fingers in between his sister’s and, as a sense of joy and jubilee overcame them, the two of them smiled at the sight. The mountain had not forgotten them. Here, their people had thrived. As they had carried the heart of the mountains, so too the mountain carried them.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this short story for an Appalachian Literature class. I didn't know where I would post it so I just thought it would hang out here for a while. :)


End file.
